Monaco

Monaco is a paradox held in two square kilometres: a sovereign state the size of a park, carrying the weight of a century and a half of legend. The Casino de Monte-Carlo still presides over its square like a theatre that never quite closes; below, Port Hercule gathers the world's great yachts as it has gathered them for generations. Yet beyond the spectacle lies something quieter — the old town on Le Rocher, the changing of the guard before the Prince's Palace, the gardens suspended above the Mediterranean. The Principality understands discretion better than almost anywhere on earth. It has spent decades perfecting the art of seeing everything and saying nothing.

From Paris, the gentlest approach is by air: a private jet from Le Bourget to Nice Côte d'Azur in around one hour and twenty-five minutes, where your chauffeur waits on the apron. The final movement is the A8 above the sea — thirty-five minutes of cliff and coastline before the tunnels open onto the Principality. Those with time prefer the road entire: the A6 south from Paris, the A7 down the Rhône, the A8 across Provence, an unhurried day with a long lunch arranged en route. The Mercedes-Maybach S680 suits this coast — silent, composed, its rear cabin prepared with chilled water, your preferred reading, and nothing that requires your attention.

Stay where Monaco itself would stay: the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo, its suites turned toward the harbour, with Le Louis XV – Alain Ducasse a private lift away. Mornings belong to the Thermes Marins Monte-Carlo suspended above the sea; afternoons to the Yacht Club de Monaco or the Roseraie Princesse Grace in Fontvieille. Evenings ascend to the Opéra de Monte-Carlo, Charles Garnier's jewel-box beside the casino, before a nightcap at the Bar Américain. In late May, we arrange the Grand Prix from a private terrace above the circuit, your chauffeur holding position throughout the closed-road weekend. The Principality is small. Lived correctly, it proves inexhaustible.